Portrait of My Love
by noodlemonster89
Summary: One shot. "For nobody could paint a dream." A vision of elegant, wavy blonde hair and a familiar angelic face hit him immediately.


(Author's note)Well, I'm back again. Current mood: EXTREMELY annoyed and anxious. But that has nothing to do with my one shot.

I was driving home with my mom from church today when I heard Matt Monro's "Portrait of My Love." The one line that inspired me to write this was when he sings, "For nobody could paint a dream."

For all those who are familiar with my previous one shot, My Funny Valentine, this is sort of a spin-off off of that; another "Spike's P.O.V (or personal opinion) of song lyrics."

I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors, fragments, etc. Those are my weak points.

Personally, I don't think this one is as good as My Funny Valentine, considering it's not very humorous, but I had to give it a shot. Can't ignore your muse, right?

Once again, I'd like to state that I appreciate any constructive criticism, but could care less about haters, unnecessary garbage, etc. You don't like? Keep it to yourself. There's no need to be uncivil.

One more thing. I did not create "Cowboy Bebop" and it does not belong to me. Shinichiro Watanabe and Keiko Nobumoto are responsible for that.

As well as "Portrait of My Love." It was sung by Matt Monro, and written by David West and Cyril Orander.

Well enough of my blabbering. I hope you enjoy.

Portrait of My Love

With a magazine placed on top of his face, Spike lounged lazily on that "oh-so-comfortable," familiar school-bus-yellow couch; evermore proving himself the carefree, lanky freeloader that he was. It just happened to be _one _of those days. In which there was nothing to do; and he was probably the only one on the ship that wasn't preoccupied. Since there was no bounty to hunt, his comrades were off to tending to their own amusements. Faye was more than likely blowing off her share of their last bounty at the tracks, while Jet isolated himself in his bonsai room, thoughtfully caring to the plants with precision and patience. Ed and Ein were no where to be found. It was obvious that they were somewhere on the ship napping their boredom away. Spike had already flipped through the channels; there was nothing worth watching on TV. As he yawned loudly, his long arm stretched to turn the radio on.

"_Hey all you cool cats out there! This is Tom Felding on the air. Bringing to you all the greatest, OLDEST hits on 105.3."_

"Hm," Spike mused, scratching his chin. "Déjà vu."

"_This song here is a doozy! It's for anyone that's a star-eyed hopeless romantic with someone on their mind. My man, Matt Monro, with "Portrait of my Love."_

Spike let out a snort as he took the magazine off his face and began flipping through it.

_There could never be a portrait of my love_

Spike scoffed and flipped another page. "Who paints now these days?"

_For nobody could paint a dream_

Spike froze. A vision of elegant, wavy blonde hair and a familiar angelic face hit him immediately.

_You will never see a portrait of my love_

He shut his eyes firmly and took a deep breath. "It's been three years…"

_For miracles are never seen_

"Miracle," the lanky cowboy mused. "What an understatement."

_Anyone who sees her, soon forgets the Mona Lisa_

Spike blinked. "Mona Lisa? Who the hell is that?" But the statement held some truth. He didn't know who or what the Mona Lisa was; but he could remember forgetting to breathe that night he walked into the shady bar and laid eyes on…

_It would take I know, a Michelangelo_

He lit a cigarette and scratched his head. "A what?"

_And he would need the glow of dawn that paints the sky above,_

Smoke flew from his mouth as he exhaled. Many times he had spent sleepless nights waiting for the blasted sun to rise, and as glorious as the vision was, it just couldn't compare to…

_To try and paint a portrait of my love_

"Julia," Spike whispered.

_It would take I know, a Michelangelo_

_And he would need the glow of dawn that paints the sky above,_

_To try and paint a portrait of my love_

He sighed deeply as he sat up, bending over to turn the radio off. "Julia," he thought sadly. He didn't have a picture of her. What was that saying? Oh right. Something about pictures lasting longer. It didn't matter. Nothing could compare to having Julia in the flesh. He shook his head as he stood up and started walking towards the loft. "Damn song was right. Dreams can't be painted."

(Author's note)There MIGHT be a second part to this, but I'm not making any promises. I don't know. We'll see how far my muse will take me.


End file.
